Making Gnocchi
by GratefulInsomniac
Summary: At the beginning of the episode 'Epic Fail,' House's friend Cecile decides to play matchmaker.


_A/N-This is a fluffy oneshot that I wrote mostly while I was on vacation when I didn't feel in the mood for writing my serious fic. Sorry to keep you waiting on that one (The next chapter should be up within a week). This one isn't too serious or plot heavy, but hopefully it's a little tense, fun and sexy. Thanks to this fic's inadvertent inspirer._

_This is near the beginning of Season 6 (Epic Fail). I ignored everything that happened after the first few minutes of that episode. Some of the first lines of dialog are directly from the show.  
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_I don't own these characters. _

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><p>Cuddy was actually there, in Wilson's kitchen. The whole thing was strange and unexpected, but House certainly didn't <em>mind<em> her being there. She asked if maybe she was the reason he was leaving the hospital. Of course he started to dismiss her. It was his instinct. As natural as gasping for air after being too long under water, he started to mess with her again. He wasn't even thinking ahead, just reacting. He never thought she would show up at Wilson's apartment. He certainly didn't think she'd ever mention his messy last days at Princeton-Plainsboro. And even though he heard the initial jab blurt from his mouth, just as quickly, he opted for honesty. "We flirted, we kissed, I fondled…I hallucinated a night with you and yelled it from a hospital balcony. You're not a narcissist."

She seemed a little stunned. He swallowed almost imperceptibly, but he laid it all on the table. He was prepared for her to explain away the kiss or deny her part in the years of flirting that had gone on between them, but she answered, simply, "So what am I?"

He steadied his hands on the table for a moment and answered, "Not the reason I'm leaving."

She confessed, boldly, "House…I'm gonna miss you."

His brain was trying to process what was going on as quickly as possible, and then he heard Cecile, his friend from cooking class, begin to speak. He was relieved for the interruption because it was buying him time, but her words presented a new problem, "You won't have to miss him if you're here." All eyes focused on Cecile when she started to untie her apron. "I have something I have to do. You stir."

Cuddy threw her hands up immediately to deny the very idea, "I'm not in your class. I have no idea what you're doing."

"You don't know how to stir?" Cecile skeptically countered.

"No, of course I can stir," Cuddy began even as the older woman handed her the apron and nudged her toward the stove.

"Quick lesson," Cecile patronizingly stated, holding a wooden spoon in front of her and stirring the air. "Think you can handle it?"

"I just… don't have much time."

"Then I guess he's on his own. You sure you can't find an hour to help someone that you'd miss _so _much?" A timer went off at the perfect moment, and Cecile waited expectantly, nodding her head toward the boiling pot. "Dump the pot into the colander in the sink."

"Sure," Cuddy answered, nodding indistinctly before she began searching for an oven mitt to remove the boiling pot from the stove. Unable to quickly find an oven mitt, Cuddy used the apron that Cecile had given her. She lifted the pot and walked to the sink, feeling the sudden burst of steam hitting her face. By the time she placed the pot back on the stove, the sound of Cecile closing the apartment door called to attention exactly how alone they suddenly were.

House stared at the dough beneath his fingers while he continued to roll it to a consistent thickness before flicking the longer piece into smaller, gnocchi-sized pieces. Comments he'd made so flippantly about flirting, kissing and fondling seemed completely casual and safe minutes earlier when Cecile stood in his kitchen like a welcomed buffer between him and Cuddy and the unspoken partially revealed truths that hung in the air. He considered telling Cuddy she could leave, but he didn't want her to go. He thought of trying to explain to her what had happened before Mayfield, but that was too much to discuss at the moment. For a split second, he even thought about telling her that he was going to miss her too, but the words never came.

"You okay?" she asked, tentatively.

He nodded as he was brought back to the realization that she really was there. Glancing briefly at her, he saw the worried look in her eyes, a look so close to the one he'd seen months earlier when he was _not_ okay. He answered, "That was the test batch."

Believing that he was responding to her question, his answer didn't make sense. Her forehead wrinkled with concern as she asked, nervously, "What are you talking about?"

"I didn't realize how culinarily challenged you are," he teased, finding some of his certainty from her uncertainty. Talking down to her, he instructed, "You just dumped water into the strainer in the sink. Hopefully there were little fluffy lumps of deliciousness left behind. Take a look."

She half-heartedly sneered before she looked into the strainer and answered, "Yes."

"Well, the purpose of a test batch is to test. So…test." Impatient to find out how the batch had turned out, he vaguely watched her as she speared one piece of food with her fork.

She popped it in her mouth, and smiled after she ate it. "It's fine."

House lifted his head, obviously confounded by her answer, "_Fine_? It's _fine_? That's it?"

"Yea. It's fine," she calmly answered. "Maybe you could…throw some sauce on it to give it some flavor."

He was immediately trying to solve the problem of what could have gone wrong. Standing next to her, he was so close that she wondered if she should take a step back. He grabbed a piece for himself and ate it as he tried to figure out how to fix this. After all, there was no point in making anything if he hadn't devised the most perfect way of making it, solving every possible problem that could exist in the recipe. Chewing slowly as he returned to the counter and leaned his palms on the wooden surface, he suddenly realized that there was no imperfection in his recipe or technique. He turned back toward the sink just in time to see Cuddy trying to hide the fact that she'd taken another piece of gnocchi that was still in her mouth. "You're lying," he proclaimed, proudly.

Her momentary attempt at a look of innocence faded as her mouth pulled into a tiny smirk, and he could see the glint in her eye before she crossed her arms, chewed the food that was left in her mouth, and answered, "Fine. I was lying."

"It's great. Isn't it?" He was completely cocky.

She nodded sort of equivocally, but finally surrendered, "It's delicious."

"So you're just fucking with me. Really nice, Cuddy, screwing with the mind of a mental patient by trying to ruin one of the few things he's still allowed to do for fun."

He turned back to the table to continue making individual pieces out of one larger piece. His focus was entirely on his task, so he couldn't see her guilt, but he could feel it. He could hear it in the silence emanating from her. It was fun though, feeling her squirm a little again. After all, she was screwing with him, and he realized that messing with Cuddy was another thing he was still allowed to do post-Vicodin. Waiting for her words, his mind placed bets on whether she'd try to ignore the tension and rebound, or whether she'd try to talk about what had just happened. In his mind, the odds were strongly in favor of the deflection option, but he felt something brush the back of his arm. The barely there sensation became more palpable as he turned to his right and saw her standing next to him. Remorse was written on her face. Her hand curved around the back of his arm.

He didn't turn his whole body, but he turned his head, waiting for an explanation. Her words were earnest and concerned as she whispered, "I'm sorry. That was really insensitive of me and I…I…want you to have fun…"

She was searching for words as he leaned just a little closer. His frown transformed from surprised to curious before it became a smirk. "They didn't reprogram me…they just removed the Vicodin. You didn't hurt my feelings."

"God you're…_such_ an ass," she half-laughed. "I felt guilty."

"You usually feel guilty. I'm usually screwing with you. Little has changed."

She playfully smacked his arm, but with more force than what he would have anticipated. It looked like she was about to say something sarcastic or funny, but she tilted her head as she gazed to the side for a moment. Her mouth found a subtle smile. Bracing her palm on the counter, her other hand on her hip, she shook her head as if she were trying to deny some truth in her mind, but when she looked back at him, she said, "I really _have_ missed you."

Leaning back down to the table to continue his work, he eventually answered, "You missed the sarcasm or the sexual tension?"

Without missing a beat, she asked, "What sexual tension?"

He only barely lifted his eyes to her, his eyebrows raised with the slightest amusement. "I must have confused you with Wilson again."

It seemed in his mind like their careful balance between flirting and maintaining a safe distance had been restored, and then he felt her hand on his back. Standing upright, he noticed that she was trying to get him to turn his body toward her so she was sure to have his attention, but he resisted. Finally relenting, he completely faced her and testily asked, "What?"

Although he pushed, it didn't seem to dissuade her from what she needed to say. "I'm happy for you," she stated. "At the risk of sounding patronizing…I'm proud of you. I hope you find some happiness. You deserve it."

Her words were heartfelt and weighty, things she needed to say to him while she had the chance. It seemed like maybe she was about to hug him. The thought rang in his brain as he realized how much he wanted that stupid, voluntary human contact that he'd so often reviled. He wanted to feel her body step closer to him, to feel her fingers slide around his back as her arms tightened around his torso. He was already imagining the sensation of her feminine form against the front of him. He was considering this hypothetical hug and the moment when he'd not only accept the small token of affection, but also actively engage in it, winding his arms around her to bring her closer. He could almost feel the heat from her body right before the thought was ripped away by reality.

He remembered their final moments together before his trip to Mayfield. She'd seen him at his lowest. She'd seen the extent of his insanity, the results of years of drug use and pain. With a heavy lump in his chest, he admitted to himself that there was no way for him to erase those things, to make Cuddy forget what she'd seen and heard. His chance with her had come and gone, and her idea of who he was had permanently been changed. Anything else was just a fantasy. He finally spoke, his voice gravely and certain, "You should have worn Cecile's apron."

With confusion, she asked, "Hunh?"

"You have potato on your shirt."

She looked down to confirm what he was saying and, with obvious disappointment at the direction of the conversation, said, "It'll come out. If not, it's not the end of the world. It's just a shirt."

It was insane how much the deflection made her ache. She wasn't even really sure why, but it just hurt. She was thinking of an excuse to leave because she knew how often an intense moment between them could go wrong, and she didn't want the day to result in a memory that would make her cringe whenever she'd recall it.

He moved, and the movement caught her attention. She watched curiously as he came closer, and he started to brush away the starchy residue that was stuck to her clothing. She must have leaned against the counter, pressing food into the fabric covering her stomach. He scratched away at it with his fingernail, watching food particles fall to the kitchen floor. It was bizarre that something so typically impersonal and ordinary could feel so intimate.

"There," he said when he was finished, examining his work.

"Oh," she answered, somewhat startled from her thoughts by his voice. "Thanks."

Before pulling away, he pressed his hand softly against her, his thumb technically moving over the spot that he'd just cleaned, but all she could think about was the fact that he was casually making contact. "Sure," he briskly answered before he went back to his work.

She stood in the same spot, feeling completely crazy for the flash of thoughts that flew through her mind at the simple touch. She wanted to know what he was thinking. Did he have the same irrational reaction to something so trivial? What did he really think about her?

They worked together for a while, each a little surprised at how much they were enjoying each other's company, and how easy it seemed even though the tension never really left. Cuddy even cancelled an afternoon meeting at the hospital. "Slacker," House loudly accused as she hung up the phone.

She just shrugged and made a half-hearted excuse before she continued moving trays of already finished gnocchi over to make room for the final tray. She asked, "What is all of this for. Are you…having a party?"

"My entire life is a party."

"Seriously, who is going to eat all of this?"

"Some for Wilson and me, but Cecile was going to take most of it. She has a dinner thing."

"Wilson has a meeting with someone from Memorial, and Cecile obviously had some very urgent duties to attend to. I guess you'll have to host your own party."

"I'll start theme nights. Monday night can be support group night. Tuesday night is poker night, Wednesday nights we can get together all of the men who've hallucinated sex with you and then promptly checked themselves into an asylum."

"All of them? We'll have to rent a fire hall or something. I don't think this apartment is big enough." When he smiled in response to her joke, it seemed genuine and almost natural, and the fact that she could make someone so generally unhappy feel at least a little bit happy filled her with a sense of pride. She felt that familiar rise of affection for him. "Well," she added, still teasing, "if it's traumatic enough to send them to an asylum, hopefully the sex was worth it."

"It was totally worth it. I might do it again sometime. There are tons of treatment facilities I haven't visited yet," he said, his tone joking, but his eyes lingering in an admiring way. He handed her a spoon with a little taste of sauce, asking, "More pepper?"

She closed her eyes as the taste of the sauce rolled over her tongue, only opening them when she heard the loud interruption of a buzzer. House followed the sound, leaving Cuddy in the kitchen with her empty spoon. She could hear him talking before she could see him again. "You were _surprised_ that Cecile was here," he said, accusatorily.

He was in the next room folding laundry when she answered, "You aren't exactly known for your packed social calendar."

"And you _knew_ Wilson was at work."

"It's not really a secret. What's your point?"

"You decided to come here, assuming that I was alone, knowing what you know, to ask me if I was quitting because of whatever there was between us when, technically, there was really nothing between us."

Cuddy thought for a revealing moment, and answered, "There has never been _nothing_ between us."

House stood a little taller, his expression suggesting that he'd either discovered something or won a bet, but hesitation tempered his success. "I thought you'd be more uncomfortable around me."

"I'm not uncomfortable. I'm a little curious. And I was worried about you. I didn't want to be the reason why you'd give up something that you love. If you wanted to stay at the hospital and I was the only reason that you were leaving, I thought maybe we could figure something out so you could stay."

"Curious about what?" he asked, fixating on one small piece of what she'd said.

"About how you were doing. About what happened. About what you think about me. You've bragged to everyone, me included, that you've fantasized about me for years, so much so that it's sort of meaningless at this point. But you said other things that were more personal. I wondered—"

House bustled as he felt her getting too close, "The words of a man in the throes of a complete breakdown shouldn't carry a lot of weight."

"You wouldn't be curious if the situations were reversed? You're so hard to really _know_. I have no idea how you feel about me. I've tried to figure it out a thousand times, and every time I think I get it…I'm wrong."

He felt too exposed, so he pushed back with his words, "There's nothing to figure out. There _aren't_ any hidden inner feelings here. You already know everything there is to know. What happened between us in my head was about me getting off."

"But you said…," she started and then paused. The expression fell from her face. Even though she tried to hide it, he knew she was hurt. She forced a smile and answered, "Okay." She skirted past him, started filling the sink with water and wiping down the table while she talked about how she was going to help him clean up and then she'd be on her way.

He stood in the living room behind her, still folding laundry. Her mind swam as she realized this day would likely become another memory that would make her cringe. She regretted pushing him for answers when he had so recently been released. Wanting to hold onto the somewhat tenuous friendship they had, she was determined to do what she could to make sure things wouldn't be too uncomfortable the next time they met. Cuddy couldn't quite see her life without him.

Returning to the living room, she said, "My god, House, you cook, you do laundry…if you can do occasional childcare and acupressure for stressed working mothers, I may hire you to help out at home."

"You need a maid who can diagnose amyloidosis and iron your panties?" he asked, his voice level and somber in spite of the joke.

She smiled, tentatively, "A new career could be waiting for you."

As she left the living room, he sneered at himself and the way that he'd pushed her. He followed her, half of the laundry still bunched up in a pile in the basket. She was washing dishes, and he approached, leaning back on the counter next to her. He'd lied about his feelings, he knew she was hurt, and there was nothing to buffer the regret that he felt.

He couldn't help but stare at her as he realized that the desires that were revealed during his breakdown hadn't actually changed. His desire to kiss her, to touch her, to see if they could have an actual relationship, hadn't evaporated when the Vicodin was gone. Many times he'd tried to dismiss those very thoughts and feelings, to explain them away so they couldn't hurt him anymore when he'd find them to be unfulfillable.

He hoped that maybe the fact that she'd sought him out, that she hadn't seemed afraid to be alone with him, and that she'd taken the opportunity that Cecile had given her to stay, might mean that the things he wanted weren't entirely out of his reach. Her disappointment lingered although she was still masking it. It pulled at him so uncomfortably that he knew he had to do something. "Interviews are bullshit," he declared.

"Maybe we could work on your interviewing technique," she quipped.

"But it's true. Interviews involve a lot of talking and self-aggrandizement that, at best, loosely mirror a candidate's true abilities. I don't think I'm a good candidate for your maid-cook-nanny position, but I can help you by offering advice for when you do decide to hire someone."

"_You_ are going to give _me_ hiring advice? I can't wait."

"Absolutely. Anyone can show up at an interview and tell you what you want to hear. Example…I can tell you that I'm the oldest of seven kids, I practically raised my siblings. I loved the little scamps like they were my own, and I miss having a child to care for. I can make up some culinary apprenticeship that I had with the personal chef to the Emperor of Monaco-"

"There is no Emperor of Monaco-"

"You don't know that."

"But I _do _know that."

"Work with me."

"Fine, go on," she grinned as their banter was returning.

"So I was the apprentice to the personal chef of the Emperor of Monaco and was carefully trained in acupressure in a hidden monastery in the East that is only accessible by llama."

"And in this scenario, I'm actually buying all of your lies?"

"You are."

"How do you suggest that I combat this obvious hurdle in the hiring process?" she dryly asked.

"You require demonstration. An actual test of skill…a trial run. I'll show you what you should look for. Now you've sampled my cooking skills so that's proven, but for your fancy dinners, you need more than food…" House limped to the refrigerator and grabbed a bottle of wine that was stored on top. He opened it with enough pomp and circumstance to make Cuddy laugh subtly before he poured some into a coffee cup.

"Love your choice of stemware," she replied, sipping the wine. "Wow, that's…," she took the bottle from him and gasped when she read the label. "House, this is a five-hundred dollar bottle of wine."

"I can't give you crappy wine. This is for a _job_, what were you expecting?"

"Isn't that Wilson's?"

House scoffed and continued, "Now, I've demonstrated my cooking and wine selection skills, next item…"

Without explanation, he grabbed her hand and pulled it in front of his chest. He wrapped his fingers around the back of her wrist and positioned her hand so her palm was facing toward him. She felt him pressing into the fleshier space below her thumb. With the right amount of firmness, the muscle stress eased in her hand even as the tension escalated between them. He took time with each of her fingers, massaging the segments between each knuckle.

Her eyelids were closing slightly as she relaxed, and then she felt the piercing quality of his gaze. He wasn't watching what he was doing. He was watching her reactions, studying her face. And once their eyes met, she couldn't look away. Everything between them felt like too much. The confusion, the heat, the closeness was completely overwhelming, but she didn't want to leave. She just needed to ease the volume of it all while she found her balance again, so she stated as coolly as possible, "Your demonstration method might have merit."

He ignored her redirection. Compelled by a need to have her understand, he confessed, "It wasn't just about me getting off."

She shook her head, trying too hard to keep eye contact, "You don't have to say anything. That was…pretty much what I was expecting."

"You really think that?"

"I don't know what I think."

"Ensuring your fun was a significant part of my fun."

"It doesn't matter."

"It matters," he stated firmly. "For the record, in my fucked-up, delusional mind, you kissed me. I kissed you back. Things got really hot, really fast. I made you feel good…_repeatedly_. You made me forget that I was miserable. I never wanted to stop."

They were so near, the tension simultaneously pushing and pulling them as they each waited for some indication of certainty from the other. Her face was tilted toward him. She looked both open and cautious, excited and worried, torn back and forth between the desire to explore this possibility and the need to protect herself. He was just as torn, but he let his honesty open the door to this possibility that had always seemed closed for one reason or another. He stayed there, still massaging her hand because he wasn't ready to let go of the little contact he was granted.

All of those weeks of missing him, of wondering about him, were creating an emotional turbulence in her that was getting difficult to keep ordered until she finally asked the first question that bubbled to the surface. "Do you still want the things you thought you wanted then?"

He squinted, keeping his focus on her face, knowing his answer would likely take him beyond the point of return. The thing was…he didn't want to return to where he had been. He didn't want to live on the outskirts of the life he wanted anymore. All he had to do was tell her the truth. He could hear the echoes of fifty things he could have done to send her away, but instead he quickly bobbed his head and answered, "Yea,"

"Good," she answered with a relieved smile.

His answer didn't seem to make her next move any easier. Her feet felt glued to the ground, but she willed her body to move closer as she fought gravity and hesitation and lifted up toward him. He didn't wait for her to kiss him. His one hand still held hers between them as their lips met. The sensation zinged with such intensity that it was almost searing. He felt the dizziness of arousal and the echoing wonder of whether or not this was actually happening. The fingers of her free hand trailed along his neck, grazing the bottom of his ear and the back of his hair, and his arm pulled her closer immediately, silencing the echoes with his pure need for her.

He turned their bodies, moving her between him and the table in the middle of the kitchen. His hands found her hips, lifting her slowly onto the tabletop. While he helped her up, she felt his lips move over her chin before his mouth slid down her neck to the dip just above her collarbone. He had to stand next to her since her skirt kept her legs together. His arm reached across her body, his hand moving smoothly along her outer thigh. He started to gather the fabric of her skirt with his fingers so he could push it up, but paused. He wanted so badly to stand closer to her, to feel her knees brush against him while she wrapped her legs around his body. He wanted to feel her surrounding him, to feel her gasp as well as hear it. He knew he was getting ahead of himself. His mind was filled with ideas about what he wanted to happen, but he wasn't even sure how far this was going to go.

Moving his hand to her hip, he let his thumb brush the skin under the edge of her shirt, looking for some indication of her intentions. His thoughts were completely aware of the possibility of rejection. He was, as a rule, not all that horrified by the concept of rejection, but this was different. As much as he didn't want to acknowledge it, he really did not want to be denied by her. He _could_ handle it; he knew how. On a very deep level, he simply didn't _want_ to feel the sense of loss again, at least not from her.

He was already getting hooked on the idea of her. Her skin tasted nice. And she smelled wonderful. And she felt amazing. And he wanted her chest to keep moving in that slightly breathless, turned on way that it was. She was so fucking beautiful when there was so little space between them.

When her hand grasped his tee shirt over the small of his back, her nails scratched the skin on either side of his spine, and the surge of arousal in his body made him hope this was the sign he needed. As soon as she flung his tee to the ground, his hands slipped under her shirt at both sides and started lifting it over her head, and when he could see her face again, he noticed a wave of worry. She asked, "What would your therapist say right now?"

House quickly kissed her in reassurance while his hands slipped around the toned curve of her back. "He'd probably ask how I feel about this because he's really into the whole _feelings_ thing. I'd make a somewhat inappropriate but highly accurate comment about _exactly_ how I feel right now. Then he'd awkwardly apologize for interrupting us, and he remind me of my appointment next Tuesday at ten."

Cuddy smiled, but was clearly still concerned, "I don't want to mess this up for you. I don't want to hurt you."

"That's a really great coincidence," he said, meeting her worried gaze with a more certain one, "because I don't want to get hurt."

"Should we slow things down? Should we date?"

"What's the point? We already know each other. This context is a little different, but we're the same people at the hospital or here or having a drink at a bar. Although…," he paused, looking down at her breasts with admiration and longing, "there are certain aspects of you I'd like to explore more completely. Fortunately those aspects are all attached to the person I already know." Sensing her continued concern, he placed his hands on the table on either side of her and answered solemnly, "I'm a work in progress. I've done a lot to get this far, and I'm gonna keep working at it. If you need perfection…I guess we should call it off. But if you like me half as much as I like you…it might be worth it to stick around."

With a deep breath and a very slow exhale, he waited. She took his face in her hand, her thumb brushing softly over his lips. As the worry eased, her expression started to display the depth of affection that she held for him. "You've always been worth it." Her eyes dropped down for a few painful seconds while he thought she was about to pull away from him. When she looked back up, her fingers dropped from his face and her hand slid down his chest, "Maybe I can help you see that."

After a pause while he processed her answer, he suggestively muttered, "Then I completely agree that we should slow things down."

She watched and felt his hand slide between her knees, moving upward while his fingers disappeared under her skirt. The backs of his knuckles brushed her skin until he reached the top of her legs. Wrapping his fingers under her thigh, he pressed his thumb against her sex. She moaned a second before the contact in sheer anticipation, her hips rocking slightly as she felt the firm way his thumb wiggled against her over her panties.

For a moment, the sight of his hand disappearing under her skirt while he touched her was enough. It called upon so many of his fantasies, so he just enjoyed the erotic luxury of feeling something so desired coming to life. His other arm reached behind her back as he watched their mutual attraction and arousal increase with the intensity of each touch. When he unclasped her bra, she was the first to toss it aside, and by the time her hands were back on the table to brace her body, he was already near her breast. He started to lick and suck at the tightly peaked nipple, answering the unspoken request of her body for more.

She seemed to be the more impatient one, tugging the skirt up her legs so there was one less thing in their way. His eyes dropped to the juncture of her thighs and her soaked panties. He watched his thumb press against her, actually seeing what he'd been visualizing ever since his hand had passed between her knees. Pausing, he stepped between her feet, hooking his fingers under her panties and sliding them down over her legs while his eyes devoured the sight of her, completely naked in front of him.

Barely touching her skin with his fingers, he made a delicate trail up her leg that his tongue and lips followed. When he hovered just above her sex, he looked into her eyes, noting the outright expectation and need that he could see from her. He knew they'd both waited too long and needed this too much. Then he lowered his mouth until he was against her. His tongue immediately slipped through her folds, rolling over her already pulsing clit and swirling against it while she sighed so loudly that it filled the room. Holding nothing back, he was giving her the fullest attention, the perfect amounts of pressure and speed to bring her to the place she so urgently needed to go.

The thing that drove him crazy was the way she responded. She was just as consumed by this as he was, allowing her natural physical reactions to emerge unsuppressed. Her body was moving with him, her back arching, muscles tensing as she gasped and purred in approval. Everything about her made him want more.

She sat up before she was done, pulling him closer to the table. He was confounded that she'd stop him short of orgasm, but when she whispered seductively into his ear, "Come here," any arguments flew out the window. He would have followed her anywhere she wanted to go.

Her hands moved over his torso to his jeans, quickly popping the button and lowering the zipper, shoving them partway down his thighs. She reached into his boxers, lightly stroking his erection. His eyes closed, but his fingers were digging into her ass as he kept her close to him. She wasn't trying to tease him and he certainly didn't need any more foreplay, but she just wanted to touch him, to hold him in her hands and see the pleasure on his face.

They only slowed for a moment before impatience won over again. She hopped off the table and immediately pushed his jeans and boxers down to his feet while he stepped out of them. Before she stood, she took one slow, provocative lick along his cock, sucking on the tip for a few arousing seconds that he thought might actually be enough to finish him. Perhaps reading his mind, she stopped, standing and turning away. She took his hands and brought them to the fronts of her hips, kissing him over her shoulder while she leaned her back against his torso, pressing her ass against him.

The moment was so arousing to him that there weren't even _sexual_ thoughts anymore. He just existed in a completely experiential moment that lacked the noise that his overactive brain almost always produced. He closed his eyes and tipped back his head as he entered her, embraced by the slick tightness of her pussy as they melded together. He reached between her legs to press against her clit, feeling each of her shudders as he moved against her and inside her.

The way she moved, sounded and felt was being burned in his brain even though his mind was thoughtless. She was all that he wanted. Their existence included only the two of them, trading pleasure and sharing the type of orgasm that robs one of mind function and breath and strength.

He leaned against her and the table in his blissfully post-orgasmic haze, feeling the way he was still inside her, and she still pulsed around him. She pressed back against his body, enjoying the way he was still wrapped around her, one arm low around her hips, one arm across her chest with his hand anchored at her shoulder. They decided to suspend that moment for just a little while longer.

* * *

><p>When Wilson arrived at his apartment, House and Cuddy were playing cards in the living room. After greeting them both, Wilson said, "Cuddy, I stopped by your office. Your secretary said you were unfortunately detained and would not be returning to work."<p>

"Unfortunately?" House huffed at her.

"What was I supposed to say?" she asked.

"The truth," he said with a knowing tone and a look designed to make her squirm just a little. "That you were here, with me…making _gnocchi_."

She smirked just a little, likely relieved at what he had chosen to say. "Well, all they needed to know is that I wouldn't be coming back today."

"Gnocchi?" Wilson asked, considering the facts with a bit of a frown. A loud knock at the door got his attention.

When he opened it, Cecile stood in the hall, "I'm back. Is my food ready or not?"

"Umm," Wilson turned back to his friends.

House waved Cecile toward the kitchen. She approached, smiling smugly at Cuddy as she nodded a hello. Cuddy watched while the older woman walked with a little swagger toward the fridge. "I wasn't sure if you'd get them done," Cecile said to House as he handed her plastic containers full of food.

"I love a good dinner party," he answered, sarcastically.

"Wonderful. Then you'll be there tomorrow night," she said while she slapped a paper with her address on the counter.

"I'm not really-"

"And you'll bring a date," Cecile added. Pointing at Cuddy, Cecile specified, "Her."

Cuddy and House exchanged uncertain looks, but finally both nodded their agreement. Cecile victoriously walked out of the apartment, calling in before she shut the door, "Starts at seven. Be on time."

Right after she left, Cuddy stood, "I really have to go home. The nanny's leaving soon." She stood awkwardly near House, turning quickly to Wilson to give him a hug goodbye before hugging House. Her attempt to make the whole thing look like a casual goodbye did not succeed. Wilson saw her quickly press her lips to House's cheek, and the way that House's hands tightened around her waist for a second. Wilson also noticed the look they shared before she left.

When the door closed, Wilson asked, "Two women in my apartment with you today?"

"That you know about," House smirked.

"Since when do you and Cuddy _hug_ goodbye? Since when do you hug at all?"

"Don't be jealous," House teased. "It's part of the whole recovery thing. I always have one saved just for you."

Wilson backed away, shaking his head as House held out his arms with a fake caring smile on his face. "I'm not buying it. What did you do?"

House grinned, lifting a container and holding it out for Wilson, "We told you. We made gnocchi. Try it. They're delicious, like soft, fluffy bursts of flavor in your mouth."

"No thanks," Wilson replied, suspiciously shaking his head.

"Your loss," House answered as he started to heat some up for himself.

House sat down in the living room and dealt a hand of poker. Wilson joined him after eventually going to the kitchen for a fork because the food smelled too good to pass up. Wilson admitted, admiringly, "This is fantastic. Probably the best I've had. You…have talent."

"It's funny you should say that," House revealed, "Because Cuddy said almost the exact same thing after-"

"I can't tell if you're serious or joking anymore," Wilson interrupted as he organized his cards. House considered his wager, but didn't answer. Finally Wilson blurted out, "Are you okay? What actually happened?"

"Relax, Wilson. I'm good. She's good. Actually she's really, really good…and _hot_…," House shook his head, clearing his mind momentarily of the distracting memory. "Everything is fine."

"So is she your girlfriend or…," Wilson began in the hopes of gathering more information.

"We didn't write up an official agreement," House teased. "There wasn't a lot of talking."

"Are you sure you're alright?" Wilson worried.

For a moment, House started to wonder. Once they'd had sex, he and Cuddy really didn't do much talking. Afterwards there was holding and kissing and touching, which led to more sex until it was almost time for Wilson to come home. They'd cleaned up the mess in the kitchen, sharing the flirty looks and awkward smiles that people share when relationships are new, uncertain and exciting. Shortly after that, Wilson had come home and their time alone was over.

House started to plot a way to see her. He just needed a few minutes because he would be able to tell the instant she looked at him if their relationship was all over or just beginning. The worry was worming through his head as he started to anticipate the oncoming disappointment. His phone lit up on the table next to him, and when he saw her name, he wasn't sure if he was feeling elation or dread. He tapped his phone and read the series of texts she'd sent:

_**Cuddy:**_

_I had a great time today. I'm glad you're back… I really did miss you._

_What time do you want to meet for dinner tomorrow?_

He smiled down at his phone, feeling sort of relieved and smitten, and wondering if Cuddy was looking for the same reassurance he had wanted. He started to type a text back to Cuddy when Wilson asked again, "Are you _sure_ you're alright?"

"I'm fine," House answered as if he hadn't also been worried a few seconds earlier. He pulled the paper out of his pocket to see where Cecile lived so he could figure out what time to meet Cuddy. As he unfolded it, he saw a note that Cecile had scrawled on the back:

_You're welcome. _


End file.
